


I Wanna See You On Your Bad Days

by dawngloaming



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Batcave (DCU), Borderline Personality Disorder, Bottom Joker (DCU), Caring, Chair Sex, Cooking, Crossdressing, Crying, Crying Bruce Wayne, Depressed Bruce Wayne, Depression, Dissociation, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Feelings, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Joker has BPD, Lube, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex in the Batcave (DCU), Smut, Strip Tease, Top Bruce Wayne, if u count panties, it's only vaguely implied, referenced/implied, we got prep in this house too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24060706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawngloaming/pseuds/dawngloaming
Summary: Bruce is depressed...and horny. We all know those two can go together. Joker is surprisingly domestic and caring. Bring a man some soup and suddenly he wants to fuck you. They say food is the way to a man's heart, don't they?Angsty fluff that devolves into angsty fluffy smut. Dorks in love. With very responsible and safe sexual practices! Lord knows we don't see enough of that in this fandom, not that Joker's a very safety-concerned person. But Bruce is here to ensure that he IS.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 16
Kudos: 195





	I Wanna See You On Your Bad Days

“Darling…” 

Bruce feels him before he hears him. Feels a thin, dry palm stroking his face. A pale arm reaches around from behind where he sits, slumped in the dark, at His Chair in the batcave. It’s Joker, and he sighs into the cool touch of his fingers (only ever so slightly). 

In all honesty, Bruce smells Joker, first, before anything else. And It isn’t a bad thing! On the contrary, it’s a wave of comfort far more direct than any words could ever be. 

Joker carries that bright, hospital-like chemical-y scent wherever he goes. It mingles in humorous contrast with the sweet vanilla perfume he wears to mask it. Much like a stoner masking weed with some body spray, the scents merely combine and don’t cancel each other out. He ends up smelling somewhat like a cupcake. Only, the disgustingly artificial kind from supermarkets, of course. It’s endearingly distinct, like everything about Joker--this peculiar man, this strange new puzzle piece, now fully wedged into Bruce’s life.

In seconds, he has managed to clamber into Bruce’s lap, long limbs curled in just so he can fit. It’s not exactly comfortable for either party. Bruce thinks Joker feels like a lapful of knives, given the general lack of meat on him. But it’s the course of action Joker has deemed necessary, by some means. 

The thing is, Joker is concerned. Yes, concerned. He’s capable of it: Empathy. Especially when 100 percent lucid. In general, it’s just a bit frustratingly selective. And often more cognitive than emotional. But these days, he genuinely wants the best for his bat, for his “reason to smile”. Besides, he thinks he knows very well what’s making his brooding knight’s natural resting-bitch-face so much more...forlorn. Hollow, in fact. 

Oh, Joker knows hollow. Hollow like the sometimes painfully noticeable space caverning under his prominent ribs, when he stretches out on Bruce’s bed, trying to look--no--to feel sexy. Hollow like the empty and oh-so-sharp smile of his that used to plaster Gotham’s front pages. He knows what it feels like to become carved out as a tunnel, the world passing through you so quick and bright and loud that you don’t know how to act. He knows the yawning white-noise panic of it all. The feel of drowning. Joker didn’t exactly stop drowning after coming up gasping for air post-Ace Chemicals. And goodness, he truly knows what it’s like to crave color (silk, pinwheels, lipstick, even blood) because everything has gone so blank, so drab. Your surroundings becoming nothing but half-done background art, unreal and unreachable. 

And so, he tries to be color, tries to bring color to his lover’s face.

“Brucie-bat, darling...I brought you soup. Seasonal. Butternut or somethin’ like that. Alfie supervised, so be a dear and DO drink it, hm?” Bruce glances down to discover his boyfriend had indeed brought a thermos, something easy to quickly down the meal from. The unspoken suggestion is that Bruce has been avoiding meals. He’s been sleeping all day, had to call out of some Wayne Ent meetings, and even called off patrol. Alfred’s left him to his isolation, given the do-not-disturb text he had tapped off to the batfam groupchat. He had retreated to the cave, his true comfort-zone, immediately after getting up at the late hour of three pm. He figured he would distract himself by studying a few cases. Not that it’s been going very well.

Joker, naturally, disregards any warnings to “just leave him to it,” and Bruce loves him for it. Expects it, even. Right on cue, here he is with some stupidly domestic soup. 

Joker twists open the lid with some effort. Softly cursing at the way the steam tends to seal it up too tight. After a hot second, he hands the now open container to Bruce with a proud little “tah-dahhh!” and a bright smile that just doesn't quite meet his anxious eyes. He really just wants to get Bruce to smile a little, again. Better yet, if Bruce was to give even the slightest exhale of a laugh, Joker would be over the moon. 

He doesn’t necessarily know if anything specific or recent has triggered Bruce’s dark mood, but he knows Bruce. Meaning: he realizes that this is nothing new, and that the root is, quite frankly, always the same amalgam of lead weights in his dark knight’s life. He also knows that Bruce wouldn’t wanna talk about it. He trusts Joker enough by now to talk to him honestly if he ever needs to. 

Going through all that they have, together, and making it out onto the other side? The level of sacrifice Joker has made to be with him the way they are now? Despite all the clown has done, it would be impossible for Bruce to ever distrust him again. 

Through his inner haze of awful, Bruce regards Joker’s bright yet faltering grin as a lighthouse guiding him home from the stormy night. He loves this long lithe man on his lap so much that it hurts him in his presently tender state. He loves this perpetual try-hard. 

Joker used to tout a philosophy of jolly nihilism, but like everything else in his life--Joker wasn’t very good at being a nihilist. He was, is, and always will be, a complete and utter try-hard, through and through. 

And Bruce has been the anchor to his efforts all this time. 

It aches to see how much Joker needs his presence. How much it seems to frighten him to see Bruce as the barely-there being he currently is. It’s as if he fears losing him for good, every time he withdraws like this. And it’s no wonder, considering that a jester cannot exist without a king to amuse.

Thinking of how deeply his pale lover feels, Bruce is overcome. People rarely give the sincerity of Joker’s feelings any recognition. Any truth he shared in Arkham was brushed off as attention-seeking, manipulation, or mimicry but it’s plain as day. Part of it was his own fault for pushing people away. But Bruce? He’s only ever wanted him closer.  
Here and now, it’s so easy to see how honest Joker can be, with his glossy gaze. He was never unfeeling. On the contrary, his emotions have always been far too strong for him to manage alone, though he did it for years and years, to the best of his ability. 

Bruce sets down the thermos, causing Joker to give a huff of frustration over what he perceives to be Bruce’s stubbornness. One that’s quickly cut off by the strong arms now pulling his bird-frail upper half against that broad, solid, always comfortingly warm chest. Bruce hugs him fiercely with all his fading strength, though it tires him, desperately trying to convey what he can’t open his mouth to say. The dark sludge inside of him seems to have gummed it shut. 

Joker feels Bruce nuzzle into his neck and shudders at the ticklish feeling of such a soft movement. But he’s gotten some sort of a rise out of Bruce and for that, he daren’t pull away, reflexes be damned. Instead, he moves to stroke Bruce’s hair as he feels the man’s faint tears collecting on his skin, and inhales Bruce just the same. He hasn’t showered in a while, clearly, but Joker doesn’t care. He’s always loved the sweat-tinged scent of his Bat. Usually it signifies that he’s been hard at work, though, and it’s disconcerting to understand how the familiar smell is now representative of despair and not his usual strength. 

Joker, for once, is as quiet as Bruce, and for a while the only sound in the cave is that of twin breaths, syncing up into one rhythm. 

The rare intimate peace, however, is soon disrupted by a feeling that makes Joker’s face split into a REAL grin, eyes lighting up with their old glint of mischief. There’s a suddenly hard feeling, rising up to meet him where he sits. 

Joker’s not surprised. 

He’s come to understand that Bruce is the sort of person that experiences that particularly sensory-seeking sort of depression. To be blunt: when he’s sad, chances are he’s extra fucking easy to turn on.

And it’s ok. 

It helps him to loosen up and get things off his chest, after a fashion. Sometimes, it’ll even loosen up his jaw enough to talk a little in the afterglow. Joker’s thrilled, quickly rising to the occasion, so to speak. Ever-reciprocal, ever-mirroring the light of his life. 

“Do you--” Joker breathes against his neck. “Do you want this?” he says, delicately reaching between their near-conjoined bodies to trail his hand along the fly of Bruce’s pants.

Bruce sucks a dark bruise into Joker’s lilly-white neck, the part of his lover’s body that he loves the most. Joker gasps, predictably, causing Bruce to seemingly smirk against his flesh. 

“B-Bruce--ah!--I’m gonna need a verbal answer, pretty please,” he mutters in response, rolling his eyes in fond annoyance. 

“Yeah, J, I want you. So c’mon…” Bruce whispers lowly, now lifting his head to lick at the very edge of Joker’s painfully-blushing ears. His body is like clockwork, lighting up like a christmas tree the minute Bruce pays it any special attention. 

“Alright alright alright, Mr.Casanova,” Joker laughs weakly, pushing back to pull off the lavender sweater he’s wearing (a gift from Bruce, after dealing with many a complaint about how cold the manor was). Once the fluffy oversized thing is flung aggressively into some far-off corner, Bruce attempts to pull Joker back to him, eagerly with both arms, but quick as ever, he leaps off his lap, smiling all the while. For real, this time. Bruce’s own mouth can’t help but twitch in response, no matter how bad he feels.

“Ah-ah-ah, good things come to those who wait, Wayne,” Joker pronounces, voice seductively teasing, dragging out his last name. Corny as his flirting might be (let’s face it...sticking to the classics is sort of his whole thing), Bruce finds Joker to be telling the good and honest truth, if his raised brows have anything meaningful to say. 

Joker does a little purposefully-overdone dance, hands trailing everywhere (after all, parody and camp are also very much his trademark), turning to wiggle his tiny denim-clad hips. The dark green jeans are skinnier than would appear comfortable. But successful at showing off the full-length of his legs, pointing out every curve in his little body, and highlighting his few points of pleasant softness. 

Quick as can be, he’s peeled down the surprisingly elastic clothing, all while arching his back like an exotic dancer. If there’s one thing Joker understands, that’s the value in theatrics. Bruce’s eyes light upon the flash of stark black against Joker’s now-exposed skin, beginning to roam over the sight of Joker in... a new pair of lace panties. Which he picked up from who knows where, who knows when. 

The thinner man can’t help but giggle to himself as he bend-and-snaps his torso, tossing his partner an over-shoulder glance. He knows exactly what this is doing to the bat. He knows that he’s always secretly appreciated the extra effort he puts in, minding the details and keeping things just fresh enough throughout the reassuring monotony of their various rituals over time. 

Joker, still facing the wall opposite Bruce, lifts his arms to caress his own hair like a girl at the club on a friday night, and catwalks his way back with surprising grace when going backward, especially given the deliberate sway he’s put into it. Abruptly, he clambers back into Bruce’s waiting lap. Bruce barely moves his idly occupied hands in time to catch Joker’s waist, guiding him to settle between spread legs, two willowy stems draped over either side of the chair, arms coming up to clasp behind Bruce’s neck. 

Joker glances down at his lover’s cock, exposed at some point during the brief strip tease, and now dripping. His blown eyes darken to an impossibly deeper black at the sight. “Oh, you’re all ready for me, aren’t you, darling?” he whispers reverently, involuntarily inching their lower halves closer so that the straining black lace rubs against sensitive, twitching flesh. “Be a real gentleman and let me outta this prison. Just--just peel these back, won’t ya? What’s another discharge, huh, baby?” he asks, continuing to brush the irritating fabric ever so gently against Bruce, whose breath hitches from the overwhelming feeling. 

“Joker, you know I won’t--hh--we won’t do this without prep. The lube is--ahh--all the fucking way over there,” Bruce replies. Joker bites his bare lips at this, now vividly purply-pink, expression melting into heavy-lidded arousal. “And you know that frankly my dear--hah-ahhhn--I don’t give a damn,” he retorts, always pushing back a little, as is the custom.

Before he can perform the “prison-break” himself, Bruce catches that doll-like wrist, earning a predictably hitched breath. “Safety first,” he replies, trademark smirk showing its face for the first time today, voice abruptly in full, gravelly, angrily commanding bat-mode. Joker is surprised enough to toss his head back in a cackle as he’s carried over to the special drawer.

“So that’s what it takes for you to get up again, hm? Treat-motivated, are we?” Joker jabs, exaggeratedly lapping at Bruce’s neck like a puppy. It elicits an unplanned yet hilariously appropriate growl from the man supporting his very sparing weight. Joker bites down and the growl switches to a surprised whine, a rare sound that only he ever gets to hear-- and be far too smug about. 

Mission-accomplished, the two are back to the chair, and Bruce is lathering his fingers in the viscous liquid. Joker grips the arm wrests now, trembling as he holds himself up, despite Bruce’s supporting left hand on his back. Joker is not a patient person, and Bruce is torturing him more than he knows, with all this slow stretching and thrusting and pressing that his fingers are doing. Stubborn, mumbled complaints aside, Joker’s pushing back on them and relaxing beautifully into the motion. 

Bruce can’t help but smile in his quiet way at the shivering display Joker’s giving him, all theatrics erased and replaced with a naked desperation. 

“You wanna move ahead already, don’t you?” he asks, voice tinted with the slightest mocking. Joker’s eyes fly open, bright and searing as he growls out an annoyed yet enthusiastic, “Get to it,” gritting his teeth so that the bottom row briefly juts over the top, grinding the molars together. Bruce relents, merciful and just. How perfectly on brand. Well, he relents after dolloping some more of the high end stuff on his dick. 

“You said you wanted a gentleman,” Bruce laughs at Joker’s petulant sigh. Joker lifts up, and then, fucking finally gets to slide down as Bruce slides up, slowly to accommodate factors such as girth. Their fierce, borderline-challenging eye contact decays rapidly into twin glazed slits. Joker’s first to crumble, causing him to give a little, “Ugh!” mostly unrelated to being filled. Years of trying to one up eachother has devolved into petty little games, like staring contests during sex. Bruce distracts him from the “loss” with another roll of his hips, and a pleasantly-forceful pulling down of the ones that cast his gripping hands into stark contrast. 

This time the sound Joker lets out is far higher. The two settle into a rhythm, occasionally broken up by variations in speed, the way his clown likes it. He adores being caught off guard in the right manner, and Bruce adores the sound of this adoration--the scattered, whining compliments dripping from those thin, darkening lips that swell under his own. 

With all those shuddering, breathy sounds coming out of Joker at every one of his thrusts down on Bruce's length...Bruce can't help but marvel at how very human Joker sounds. It makes Bruce feel like crying for the second time today. His exhales begin to shudder with feeling for his clown, his man. 

Granted, Bruce never saw Joker as anything more or less than human. He was never one of those people who idolized or demonized him. That’s one reason Joker has always loved him. No matter what costumes he would don, the bat saw through to him. The detective had the uncanny ability to look at his present and his past--even the unreachable part, somehow--and see Joker as a whole person, both now and then. And they say bats are blind! 

But oh, even though he's always seen the clown for what he really is--just a man--Bruce never thought he would be able to so regularly witness a Joker so completely stripped of performance. 

Here in Bruce's arms, Joker isn't just a character, like he used to paint himself to be...Joker is a human being with a heartbeat that patters like rain on a tin roof. A human being who, without all the paint smoothing out his already white skin, flushes like a sunrise. A human being with sweat that can be felt without the barrier of ever-present gloves or layers upon layers of evening wear. A human being who can barely keep his eyes open when the pleasure gets to be too much--and it does, almost instantly, given Joker’s hypersensitivity after Ace Chemicals--much less laugh or jeer or joke. 

Having sex with Joker always reminds Bruce of the first time they did it...the time he felt like he was meeting the other man for the first time. The memory of how beautiful he sounds when he climaxes pushes Bruce to begin stroking Joker's untouched dick, just to hear it once more. 

And Bruce? Bruce sounds so alive, Joker could laugh himself to hysterical, wholeheartedly grateful tears. If he wasn't so preoccupied making use of the bat-cave's soundproofing in other ways, that is. 

When Joker comes first, it's with that almost shocked sounding gasping whine Bruce loves so much, and that lovely, thoroughly uncomposed expression on his face as he lolls his neck back and to the side. Bruce adores it. He adores it enough to slow his own movements just to watch it. Just to watch as Joker’s consciousness rises like Lazarus, back to the land of the living, from the tomb of his little death. Just to see how his eyes roll back down and into focus to stare into Bruce's own heavily hooded gaze. Just to see how he breathes back into his body, ribs expanding and contracting like an accordion. Lopsided, agape smile rearranging into one that is small and loving as he strokes Bruce’s face.

“Keep goin, Prince Charming,” he whispers, so loving and soft. He knows he’ll be slightly overstimulated, but he enjoys it when it gets his Prince Charming, his king, his dark knight, to where he needs to be. Bruce gets up out of the chair and rests Joker against some nearby tablespace, for easier maneuverability. In the chair, Joker was mostly in control, whenever Bruce wasn't giving a surprise tug of those hips down onto himself. Situated in his new position, he leans his forehead onto Bruce’s collarbone, holding on weakly with ecstasy as Bruce thrusts into him, slow and hesitant at first, then more quickly as he moans so much praise into Joker’s hair. 

As the praise peters out, the tears return. They wet the nape of Joker’s neck, which Bruce lavishes in insistent kisses. Bruce doesn’t usually cry, but Joker’s been bringing it out of him, today, with all his little gestures of care. 

“I love you.” 

Joker states it clear and frank, only slightly muffled by the way he presses his face into Bruce. His voice is sincere and devoid of any exaggerated tone.

Bruce picks Joker’s face up off its resting-place, holding him by the chin.

“I. Love. You,” he tells him, firm and emphatic.

Joker’s serious, open expression blooms into a small, thoroughly pleased smile. 

“Let’s go back to bed, kay? You need your rest, emo-boy.” he tells him, tone so very soft and coddling--but with no mockery. 

“You better get some rest with me. I know you never get enough,” Bruce replies with a squeeze of his hand, gently shaking Joker’s head, but voice so caring.

“Sure, sure,” Joker says, leaning forward to kiss his nose. 

He’s done his best to help, he thinks. It’s gotta be enough, he thinks, brows knitting almost imperceptibly with lingering concern. 

When Bruce finally picks him up, after finding and then throwing the large sweater back over him for some modesty, he can’t help but whisper a thousand love-yous into his shirt. All the way back to the manor’s master suite.

Bruce hears it all. And his heart aches all the more.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a super sweet Cayetana song called Dirty Laundry


End file.
